


Days of Sun & Winters

by CarolNJoy



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: 18th Century, Ballroom Dancing, Character Study, Coming of Age, Confessions, Daddy Issues, Dancing, Dresses, Family, Family Issues, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Feathers & Featherplay, Fencing, France (Country), Growing Up, Heartbreak, Historical, Hunters & Hunting, Love, Multi, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painting, Parent Death, Pet Names, Pre-Canon, Pre-Movie(s), Punishment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10625037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolNJoy/pseuds/CarolNJoy
Summary: A series of one-shots that attempt to fill in the blanks the live-action movie left behind.Chapter 1: How Plumette earned her name.Chapter 2: Maurice opens up to Belle about her mother for the first time.Chapter 3: How the Prince came of age.





	1. Sobriquet

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I've seen the live-action movie three times while it was in theatres; I absolutely adored it in every way! However, I could not help but have some questions. This series of one-shots will be my answers to those questions. With all the ones I have planned, I'll publish them in chronological order, but after all that... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Plumette earned her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are not familiar with my other work, my main ship is Lumière/Babette, which would explain my inspiration for this first one-shot. While I do love how the movie interpreted their relationship in a way that represents my belief of them... why the name change from Babette to Plumette? Did anyone else happen to notice that Lumière is the only one that calls her by that name?
> 
> Here's the product of my wondering. Enjoy!

It was scarcely a day until the annual Christmas Eve ball, when nobility of every rank would ride their richly adorned carriages through the winding paths of the castle’s parterres and fountains. She and Lumière had both been so exhausted from the military direction Cogsworth was implementing to make sure all of the trees were in their places, the decorations had been hung, and the castle was virtually spotless, that they had mutually agreed to part ways early in favor of sleep.

Babette returned to her quarters to find an alarmingly large package taking up a portion of her bed. Wrapped in thick brown paper, the ties that kept it together seemed to be busting from the sheer girth of its contents.

With a tentativeness that curiosity had induced in her, she approached the looming package, her mind whirring with the possibilities of what it could be. Who could it even be from?

The twine was so tightly knotted around the package that she needed to grab scissors from her sewing kit to snip it off.

The paper expanded on its own, and with her curiosity at its peak, she tore through it with vigor.

Gasping, she had to still her heart at the sight.

 _Feathers._ All she saw were feathers!

Carefully gripping them, she felt lining and tulle underneath. With more handling, a beaded and boned bodice appeared. It was a gown!

 _The most beautiful gown I have ever seen,_ she concluded with utmost certainty.

She picked it up by the waist and held it aloft with twirl, admiring with the biggest smile its opulence and charm.

Then she saw something fall from the dress. With some alarm, she glanced at the floor, but saw only a folded slip of parchment.

Quickly but delicately placing the gown on the bed, she reached for the note with an eagerness only encouraged by her rapture.

In a clean and flowing hand, it said,

_Ma chère petite,_

_I have finally found something worthy of your love for les plumes. I hope you do not mind the early delivery, for I could not keep it to myself any longer, knowing how much joy it would bring you.  
_

_I also hoped it could be used as a gift of pardon. Unfortunately, due to business and other commitments, I must remain at home instead of attending the ball. If I could not enjoy it with you, it is my dearest wish that you will without me, exuding all of the elegance you naturally possess in a gown befitting it._

_I am sorry I have not replied to your last letter, and I cannot now, for duty calls on me constantly, but know that you are always in my thoughts and in my heart._

_All my love,_

_Papa_

Babette sighed as she sat on the bed next to her gown, its delivery rendered bittersweet.

She certainly loved her father for trying as hard as he did, but because of his lack of correspondence as of late, he was seeming far more distant by the month. She could understand the demand of his position: a former naval captain now running his uncle’s—an earl’s—estate. That did not ease the ache in her heart when she would think of how little they’d spoken over the year, and how long it had been since she had last seen him.

His gift though… She glanced at the dress. If it was not proof of how much he loved her, knowing how ecstatic she would be seeing such a gown, then besides attending the Christmas Eve ball, she knew not how else he could express it by his actions alone.

She took the dress in her hands again, feeling the softness of the white ostrich feathers on her fingers.

 _It is a gown even Madame de Garderobe would envy,_ she thought with a smirk. Babette had grown to admire the prima donna’s grand and extravagant taste, especially with how well she wore her own wardrobe, so now she could not wait to see the diva’s reaction.

And Lumière’s?

She smiled again, picturing vividly how in awe he would be at the sight of her in such finery. Of course, he had told her repeatedly how the sight of her on any day would bring his heart to a stop, and the way his eyes alighted on her always proved that true. But even _he_ could not deny the wonders a gorgeous gown could do when all he had seen her in the past year was a simple maid’s uniform.

Finding an empty hanger in her wardrobe, she hung the dress with care, tucking the feathers inside before closing it.

As she burrowed herself under the sheets and fell asleep, the image of wearing the gown the next night caused her to giggle.

* * *

When all of the cleaning was finished, she hurried to assist with preparation in the kitchen. On days like this, her paramour would have to be cooped up in there for hours, so she had made it a habit to join him and help in any way she could.

While at Mrs. Potts’ side drying the dishes, the housekeeper asked, “Will you be working tonight, love?”

“Non, in fact,” Babette replied, taking a rinsed pot from her. “Lumière and I have been given permission to enjoy the ball.”

Mrs. Potts paused in her scrubbing to beam at her. “Oh, how wonderful! Silly me, he _had_ mentioned it before, but with everything to do… Well, that is most exciting, dear. I’ve always admired how gracefully both of you dance.”

“Merci, madame,” she replied with a smile, then sighed with longing. “I have missed dancing. It has been so long since our last ball.”

“It won’t be too long now. Wait a tick…” Mrs. Potts glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready? The guests’ll be here in about an hour.”

“Oui, but…” Babette couldn’t hide a coy grin. “I wanted to make a bit of an entrance.”

Mrs. Potts laughed. “ _I_ see now. Is it a surprise?”

“A surprise?”

The maître d’ himself crept up behind, eyeing both of them playfully. “Do my ears deceive me or are secrets being divulged without my permission?”

With a sly glance at him, Babette inquired, “Who says you must know all of our secrets?”

Mrs. Potts teased with mock-seriousness, drying her hands. “You should know by now, Lumière: What is spoken at the dishes, _stays_ with the dishes.”

As they laughed, Lumière quipped, “How am I to argue with such ironclad logic?”

Babette wiped a pan dry as he replaced where Mrs. Potts had been, his hand rubbing the small of her back. “Thank you for your help, _chérie,_ ” he murmured with sincerity.

She smiled up at him. “ _De rien_. It is always my pleasure.”

He watched her with tender esteem. “You are a rarity among men.”

“I will say the same about you if you promise to prove it to me later,” she purred so no one but he could hear.

Washed with a sudden wave of want, he gripped her waist, smirking. “What if I told you that was my plan all along?”

With an effortless aloofness, she replied, “Then I await eagerly to see how you execute it.”

He gently pulled her closer, making it difficult for her to maintain her nonchalant composure. “Well… now that I have told you _my_ surprise,” he whispered enticingly in her ear, “will you return the favor?”

“I am afraid it is not that simple,” she admitted with a hint of dominance, giving him an amused sidelong glance.

Letting her go in mock-offense, he questioned, “So you are willingly going to torture me, to make me wait in agony?” His hand flew to his heart, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself. All the while, that mischievous sparkle she loved so much was in his eyes. “You are too cruel, mademoiselle!”

She had to laugh before soothing, “Trust me, _mon amour_ , it will be much easier to show you than to tell you.”

He tilted his head, exuding a sly kind of confidence as he said, “Ah… I think I am beginning to see what you mean.”

Babette looked doubtful, but tried to hide her smile as he bid, “Do not allow me to keep you any longer then. Carry on, _ma chérie_.” He spread his arms wide. “I release you from my domain!”

She snuck in a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. “I will see you soon,” she murmured.

“I wish it was sooner,” he admitted in a tone that made her want to melt into his embrace at that very moment.

 _There will be a time and place for that later,_ she promised herself as she hurried back to her room to prepare, anticipating more than ever Lumière’s expression when he would first catch sight of her that night.

* * *

With her petticoat, corset, stockings, and shoes on, and her face and hair finished, she slipped on the dress and attached the hooks and eyelets of the casaquin before she checked herself in her mirror.

It fit like a glove. The sleeves were tapered just past her elbow, the neckline merely hinted at her cleavage, and the beading of the bodice mimicked the feathers of the bustled skirt. With the amount of feathers she wore, she felt she could fly as though they were her wings.

The white plume she had placed in her wig bounced as she adjusted it, tucking a chocolate ringlet back inside. Her eyebrows were lined, her lips were rouged, and the beauty mark above the left side of her lip was darkened. All of the white she was wearing contrasted very nicely with her light mocha skin tone.

Satisfied, she gave her gown a twirl, giggling out loud as she watched it move in the mirror.

 _I have never been more in love with a dress!_ she thought with elation.

Glancing at the clock, her stomach dropped: It was almost half past seven.

 _The ball has already begun!_ she cringed. No one was meant to enter an event after royalty, and how could she enter any more conspicuously than in a grand, strikingly white feather gown?

Sighing, she muttered, “So much for making ‘a bit of an entrance.’”

Picking up her feathery skirts, she rushed down to the hall, past the tasteful holly and tree decorations that allowed the scent of pine and cinnamon to linger, and stopped just before the entryway to the ballroom.

The elegant playing of strings and harpsichord could be heard from where she stood. Babette breathed in as much air into her lungs as they would allow to calm her racing heart. With a graceful quickness, she rounded the doorway to stand against the wall and survey the gathering.

The chandelier and wall candelabra basked the marble ballroom in a rich, warm glow. Wreaths lined the columns circling the dance floor while a gargantuan Christmas tree covered in glass ornaments and candles stood in the center of the windows to the balcony, right behind two empty thrones.

A vast rainbow of brightly colored jackets and dresses topped with powdered wigs swirled in the space before her, dancing along to the minuet and trio. But she only sought out one in particular. One who wore a shade of deep gold that matched the contents of his character: charming, confident, and devoted. An honorable gentleman despite any flaws, with the personality to light any room he entered.

Even from the far edge of the ballroom, he only had to turn his face toward her for Babette to spot him immediately. Their eyes met, and as she had hoped, his expression was overtaken by awe. For that moment, they suddenly became the only sentient beings in the room; the world around them blurred and shimmered. It was as though a film had been placed around their visions, clouding everything and everyone else but each other from view.

His mouth widening into a broad grin, he moved his feet in her direction, swiftly stepping through the crowd and circling the twirling couples without paying them any attention. Having to mirror his smile, Babette met him at the small set of stairs that ringed the main floor.

He offered his hand for her to take. As she held her feathery skirt aloft to walk down those few steps, he appraised her with obvious admiration.

She could see on his face he was even having trouble finding words to say, which was certainly an anomaly. “Have I finally succeeded in rendering you speechless?” she inquired, wearing a triumphant smirk.

He briefly glanced to the floor as he chuckled. “You are the only one who has ever been able to achieve such a feat.”

Caught in his adoring gaze, Babette felt her heart flutter.

Without asking permission aloud, Lumière took her in his arms, a hand at her waist, and seamlessly led them into the array of dancers.

They had no trouble not only becoming in-sync with the others dancing, but anticipating the tiny flairs they loved to add to their dances. For example, he only had to incline his head a certain way for her to know he was about to twirl her. When she spun, her dress looked like she was in the process of taking flight.

Lumière laughed as they began to circle each other in rhythm, their forearms touching. “You have outdone yourself this time, _ma chérie._ ”

Unable to keep herself from smiling, she admitted, “It was a gift from Papa.”

“He certainly knows you well,” he replied, nodding in approval. “Now finally, everyone can see what I have always known.”

Babette tilted her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Smirking, he admired, “I love when you have moments of naïveté. They are so rare, yet so endearing.”

Babette gave him a chastising look. “Are you going to make me guess?”

“Oh, _amour_ ,” Lumière teased with a shake of his head. As they stepped past each other, he murmured by her ear, “You are the belle of the ball!”

They spun to face each other again, continuing their dance, before he went on, “There is not an eye in this room who has not stared in our direction, and I very much doubt it is because of me.”

She felt her cheeks grow hot. She had not taken the other guests into consideration, and frankly, she didn’t care for the attention of strangers.

The music returned to the minuet, and Babette gripped Lumière’s left hand tightly as he secured her again in his arms.

Noting the apprehension in her eyes and posture, he assured with an easing smile, “Do not worry. I have every intention of remaining at your side, both for your sake and mine.”

Previous experience made her ask, “Is that a promise?”

He brought her closer as they danced, his tone becoming more enticing. “If you thought for even a moment I would let another monsieur take you in his arms tonight, I can only assume you did not allow yourself to look in the mirror.”

Though she felt the urge to look away, she could not. His piercing gaze made her catch her breath. “You are a _vision_ ,” he said with most genuine feeling.

How he could simultaneously soothe her and excite her was something no other person she had met had ever been able to replicate. She loved everything about that elusive sensation, especially that only he could conjure it.

Their bodies were millimeters apart, as were their lips. Babette wanted to kiss them so badly, but knew that if she did, she would not be able to stop.

Having read her mind, Lumière gave her his infamous smirk. “Soon, _mon amour adorée_.”

“I wish it was sooner,” she echoed, her voice dropping to a richer register that piqued his desire.

The music concluded in a resounding cadence but still they held on to each other, even as the other dancers applauded the musicians. By their eyes alone, they mutually agreed to find a more private setting. Intertwining his hand in hers, Lumière turned to lead them to the nearest secluded drawing room, but they almost ran into Madame de Garderobe and a mustachioed signor beside her in their hurry.

“Oh, _i miei cari!_ ” the diva gushed. “What _divine_ dancing! Such form and elegance! We could not help but watch you both, especially _you_ , _chérie!_ ” She took Babette’s hands, spreading them to gaze with obvious adoration at her dress, audibly sighing. “If it did not look so lovely on you, I would be tempted to steal it for myself!”

After sneaking a knowing glance at Lumière, Babette smiled. “Merci, madame.”

“You must tell me where you found such a gown!”

The man next to her subtly coughed, and Garderobe jumped as though she had forgotten he was there.

“But you will tell me later,” she corrected, clearing her throat before she continued with finesse. “First, allow me to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Signor Giuseppe Ritmo. He is one of the best and most asked-for dance instructors in Italia.”

Signor Ritmo bowed to them, smiling. “ _Tale grazia è raramente visto in nobiltà, tanto meno nella loro personale._ ”

“Oh! He says that such grace is rarely seen in even nobility!” Garderobe translated, beaming at the praise for them.

Having only a rudimentary understanding of Italian, Lumière managed to say with sincerity, “ _Grazie, signor._ Especially coming from one with such expertise.”

“Giuseppe,” Garderobe addressed, gesturing to the couple. “ _Ti presento il nostro maître d’, Lumière, e le presento la sua adorata, Plumette._ ”

Lumière and Babette exchanged looks, both confused and amused, especially since the prima donna hadn’t noticed her mistake. He subtly tilted his head toward Mme. de Garderobe, silently asking if he should correct her, but Babette pursed her lips and minutely shook her head.

Ritmo inclined his head. “ _Piacere di conoscerla._ ”

“ _Enchanté_ ,” the couple replied, all the while trying to prevent their smiles from being too wide.

“Of course, you will join us for a _contredanse_ later on in the evening,” Garderobe ordained. “It will be so refreshing to have such skilled partners. Wouldn’t you agree, _amico mio_?”

As she looked to Ritmo, who seemed to only vaguely understand what she was saying, she clarified, “ _Fresco avere dei partner abili._ ”

The fog in his eyes cleared immediately. “Ah, sì, sì!” he agreed wholeheartedly.

“Naturally, we could not refuse your request,” Lumière politely said.

“ _Mais oui,_ it will be an honor and privilege to dance with you both,” Babette added sweetly.

“ _Perfetto!_ ” Garderobe exclaimed with delight. “Be sure you remember, _i miei cari_. Do not wander far!”

The diva gave them a sly wink before she took Ritmo’s arm, beginning to converse with him again in his native tongue as they returned to their promenade.

Wearing a mischievous smirk, Lumière gestured to the exit. “Shall we, ma ‘Plumette?’”

Babette shook her head at his teasing, but she had felt an unexpected thrill race through her at the nickname.

She took his hand and led him out of the ballroom to the nearest drawing room down the hall, but the tension between them could not be kept in check any longer. They could hardly make it through the door before their lips met with breathless urgency. While wrapped in an embrace, Lumière found the knob and spun them into their intended intimate setting.

The perfume she wore, as he was sure was her intention, intoxicated him. He could not stop breathing her in as her luscious mouth pressed earnestly against his, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

Yet he could not get the best of his curiosity.

Lumière gently pulled away, holding her chin delicately with his thumb. “I am sorry, _chérie,_ but… before we get too carried away, I must ask: Why did you not correct her?”

Babette averted her eyes, a secret smile on her rouged lips. “I don’t know,” she tried to evade.

His eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. “Of course you do. I recognize that look all too well.”

“It would have been rude,” she replied innocently.

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, clearly not believing her. He slowly ran his fingers around her waist as he leaned in to trail his lips along her neck.

“And she must have had my dress in mind,” she went on, trying very hard to keep her breath from catching.

“Undoubtedly,” he murmured against her skin.

She couldn’t help but cling to him more as his hands and lips wandered, picking at the cracks of her already crumbling resolve. The craving to kiss him only grew and grew.

Heaving a sigh tinged with pleasure and defeat, she finally caved, “Fine! Though you have just used your cruelest form of torture, I will tell you.”

Lumière laughed. “Do not pout so, _mon amour_. Your secret will be safe with me, just as they are with the dishes,” he annexed with a wink.

She released a melodious giggle. “Well… you already know my love for _les plumes._ ”

“If you hadn’t made that obvious enough tonight,” he said with a wry grin. His eyes then widened with realization. “ _Oh_ , but of course! You happen to _like_ that little sobriquet, don’t you?”

Babette’s smile gave it away, but she tried to feign nonchalantly, “It was an easy mistake to make. _Bab_ ette, _Plum_ ette. They sound… slightly similar.”

“ _C’est vrai,_ ” he played along, pulling her temptingly close. “Anything you say… ma chère Plumette.”

That same spark of delight at hearing him speak her new pet name so endearingly shot through her just before he brought her into a long and passionate kiss. Her nerve-endings alighted with excitement.

 _I think we may miss that last dance,_ she thought with humor. And she was sure her paramour would agree.


	2. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maurice opens up to Belle about her mother for the first time.

As the sun peaked the roofs of Villeneuve’s stores and apartments, Maurice stepped outside to survey the weather.

 _Not a cloud in the sky, nor in the distance,_ he noted. He paid attention to the wind as he walked down the front stairs. _A nice breeze…_

With a basket in hand, he began to gather the root vegetables and cabbages that grew in his humble garden. Out of the shade of the cottage, the sun’s rays left a pleasant warmth on his head and back.

 _And not too hot,_ he thought with a smile. _This might be the day!_

As he returned inside, he called, “Belle? Are you awake?”

“Yes, Papa!” she answered from upstairs.

While he finished washing the vegetables at their rainwater barrel, young Belle’s brown hair flew behind her as she skipped over, fully clothed in a patterned blue dress and boots.

“Do you need any help?” she inquired.

Maurice smiled as she looked at him with those big brown eyes of hers. Even at eight-years-old, she was always willing to lend him a hand. “No, my dear, but thank you,” he said.

Drying his hands on a towel, he asked, “After we finish at the market, what would you say to joining me on that big hill outside the village I’ve been talking about?”

Her eyes lit up as she remembered. “The one you want to paint?”

“Precisely!”

“It’s nice out, isn’t it?” she guessed with a grin.

“Oh, yes, _very_ nice,” he confirmed, seeming extremely convincing. “I also thought I saw a tree on that hill that looked to be a good spot for reading…”

Belle giggled at his attempt at bribery. “I would love to, Papa.” But she touched her brown hair, looking uncertain.

He smirked knowingly. “Would you like me to put your hair up for you?”

Belle clutched at her ends, wearing a meek grimace. “Could you, please? I still can’t do it the same way as you.”

Her father chuckled as they went back into the kitchen. He sat at the table as she went to stand in front of him but facing away.

Maurice would do her hair in the only way he knew how. When her mother would clean or help him with his trinkets, she used to twist both sides of her long dark hair and have it held with a ribbon.

Earlier that year, Belle had been trying to read outside on a windy afternoon, and she returned to him complaining how her hair had constantly been in her eyes and mouth. Since then, she liked to wear her hair in a ribbon every day. Though he would need to do it for her, he certainly didn’t mind.

After having artfully twisted both sides of her hair, he asked, “Do you have the ribbon?”

She pulled a light blue one out of her apron pocket and held it behind her for him to grab.

He tightened it into a perfect bow. “There,” he said as he patted her shoulders.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed sweetly before snatching up the basket of vegetables and eagerly heading to the door. “To the market!” she announced.

“To the market!” he echoed, following her close behind.

* * *

With a blank canvas under one arm, easel under the other, and a case of paints and brushes in his hand, Maurice tromped up the tallest grassy hill outside of town. Belle matched his stride while carrying his folding stool and a book of Charles Perrault’s fairytales, along with a basket of fresh bread and cheese they had earned in exchange for their extra produce at the market.

When almost at the top, Belle hurried past her father to witness the view herself for the first time. On the hill’s center, she slowly revolved where she stood, her mouth agape.

All around them was rolling forest, rising and falling like mountains. From the east, a thick river that reflected the bluest sky and its clouds like glass, snaked through the trees, running by Villeneuve on its way to the opposite horizon. A wind sent ripples through not only the grass at their feet, but the leaves in the trees, turning the forest around them into a mirage. So many colors of green were alighted by the sun that Belle hadn’t ever imagined some of them to exist before.

Maurice smiled at her wide-eyed expression of awe. He set his things down to begin setting up as he said, “What did I tell you, my dear?”

She excitedly spun to face him. “Are you really going to paint all of this?”

“I’m certainly going to try. Hopefully, I can capture its beauty for someone else to enjoy.” He shrugged, wryly grinning. “Or us. Whether we keep it or not, well… I’ll have _you_ be the judge.”

She helped Maurice set up his easel and seat before retiring to the tree behind him with her book and the basket of snacks.

He eyed his surroundings. He knew he wanted the river reflecting the sun in his painting, but did he want it at its center? There were gorgeous hills further south that he wanted to try to include.

After adjusting the easel for a primer view of those hills, he sat down, took out his paints and brushes, and got to work.

Between every few strokes, Maurice would pause to note the warmth he felt from the sun above them, and the breeze that blew through his tunic and ruffled his hair. It really was a beautiful day.

Within an hour, his canvas soon became alive with various shades of green and blues. He looked back at Belle to check on her, and he couldn’t prevent a sharp intake of breath.

She was leaned against the trunk with her legs stretched out and ankles crossed. Her head was bowed over her book, the loose wisps of her hair blowing around her diamond-shaped face.

That same painful ache coursed through his heart. _Oh, Colette,_ he thought to his late wife. _She is your spitting image._

Though it had been almost seven years since her parting from this world, Maurice had kept from speaking very much about her mother to Belle. Naturally, being as curious as she was, she had asked him numerous times to talk about her and what she was like. Out of a raw panic that he would always try to hide, he would deny her, saying that he would tell her more about her when she was older. Thankfully, Belle never pressed the question too much. Perhaps his pain at the thought of mentioning Colette still showed through.

It hurt him to tell Belle no, especially since she _should_ know how wonderful and remarkable a woman Colette was, but it also panged him to relive happy memories of her when more could no longer be made.

He had dreamed of a long life with her since the day he had met her, even if it wasn’t the most prosperous one. To have had her taken away so cruelly, and so soon, left a scar that he knew would never fully heal.

He still had nightmares of that night when she made him abandon her to the plague. In them, rather than accept her death graciously, a look of pure devastation would be ingrained in her fair features as she begged for him to return. _“Help me,_ ” she would cry. _“Please don’t leave! Don’t take my Belle away!”_ The guilt and misery from those dreams were enough to startle him awake, panting and in a cold sweat.

Maurice rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the country air. Though his conscience still waged a war on the choice he had made, they were safe, they were healthy, and they were content. He couldn’t argue that they had a good life.

And he had Belle. She was his anchor, his rock, his whole world. He would surely have gone adrift long ago if she hadn’t needed him, hadn’t returned his love so ardently. She was passionate, inventive, and even practical at her age. Her thirst for knowledge was as strong as her mother’s was, maybe even stronger.

 _She is becoming more and more like you by the day,_ he mused.

He raised his brush again, but hesitated. He thought of the trunk filled with his sketches and pencil drawings of Colette. Initially, he had hidden them to dull the pain of his loss, but… if he continued to hide her likenesses, did that mean he was ashamed?

Not of her, of course, _never_ her. But of himself, because he was not able to overcome all of his grief? Wasn’t that, at its core, him being selfish?

He dropped his hand to his lap, a contemplative line between his brow as he again gazed across the hills.

Belle was eight-years-old. She had more than the capacity to understand the complexities of how her mother died. Not only that, it was only right. She _deserved_ to know.

If he was to overcome his pain, he had to confront it, and that began with talking about her to her own flesh and blood.

An iron resolve steeled itself in his gut. He was going to do it. He was going to tell Belle about her mother that very night.

That familiar panic rose up inside him, but he stifled it. For Belle, he would conquer his fear.

Dabbing his brush into paint, he lifted his brush to the canvas once more. First, he would finish this painting. After all, when would another day be as ideal?

* * *

The sun was leaning heavily westward when they returned to their cottage. They had both eaten through the entire basket’s bread and cheese, but they still had room leftover for some vegetable stew.

Belle surveyed his painting after dinner in a long thoughtful silence. She admired it, but thought it would be a great addition to his wares the next time he went to the fair. Maurice had to agree.

He walked her upstairs to tuck her into bed, thinking all the while that he still hadn’t brought up the subject of her mother. Trying as he might, he couldn’t arrange any words in an order that was sensitive enough, that seemed proper. She was going to be hearing about Colette for the first time. It had to be done right.

“Papa?”

Maurice blinked away his thoughts. “Yes, Belle?”

Comfortably under her bedsheets, she looked at him with concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Am I…?” He chuckled. She was even as perceptive as her mother. “Yes, my dear, I’m fine. I, uh…” He glanced at the ceiling. “Actually, I have… something to show you.”

Standing up from the edge of her bed, he grabbed a candle from her nightstand and gestured with a hand, “Wait here,” before he hurried up the tight spiral steps to the attic.

Walking tentatively between the covered crates and luggage, he found easily what he was searching for, right where he had left it under a sheet on an old easel. He picked it up without looking too hard at its depictions.

With extra care, he took his time stepping down the spiral stairs. In the hallway outside Belle’s room, he gripped the wooden frame of the canvas, turning the face of it towards him. His heart raced, and he tightened his hands to keep them from shaking. He took a deep breath before reentering Belle’s room.

At the sight of the object in his hands, Belle sat up in bed, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What’s that?”

Maurice could only muster a small smile. He set the candle down to take the portrait in both of his hands. The darkened silhouette of the character it portrayed was faint in the candlelight, but was very much there.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Holding his breath, he slowly turned the painting toward Belle.

She stared silently at it for a moment. Pushing back the covers, she got out of bed for closer inspection, her lips parted as she absorbed the painting’s details. She reached her hand as though to touch it, but stopped herself.

“Is this…?” she began, and glanced at Maurice.

He nodded, all the while trying to keep his nerves at ease. “This… is your mother.”

She took a small gasp, but released it in wonder. Eying it for a minute longer, she pointed. “And is that…?”

Maurice looked to where she referred, and smiled. “Yes. That was you as a baby.”

Belle briefly covered her mouth. She gazed up at him. “You painted this, too?”

He nodded again. Tears threatened to breach his eyes, but he kept them at bay. “I did.” He watched her reverent admiration of the portrait. “Do you like it?” he had to ask.

“Oh, Papa,” she said, her hands at her heart. “She’s so pretty!”

Maurice felt himself laughing, partly with relief. One of Belle’s expectations of her mother had at least been exceeded.

“Does this mean…” Belle pursed her lips for a second before trying again, “Will you tell me about her now?”

He took a shaky breath as he sat down on the bed, setting the portrait against the bedpost. He leaned down to lift her onto his lap.

“Belle?” he said. “I know you have already waited a long time to learn about your mother, and I’m… very sorry to have done that to you. I hope you can forgive me.”

He briefly glanced to the floor before continuing, “I want you to know about your mother as much as you do, but I must ask you… to be patient with me. I cannot tell you everything all at once. Only little by little. If you so wish, I will tell you one thing about your mother every day. But no more than one.” He straightened a little, nodding to her. “Now how does that sound?”

Poor Belle seemed to be bursting with questions, but despite this, had marvelous self-control. “Will you tell me one thing now?”

Having to smile at her, he tucked a lock of her hair behind an ear. “Of course.”

Taking her hand in his, he made sure to look her dead in the eye as he told her, “Your mother… loved you with all her heart and soul. She _still_ loves you, though she is no longer with us on this earth. I know for a fact that she is always watching over us, over everything we do.” He squeezed her hand. “Always.”

Belle’s eyes began to shine. “How did she die?” she whispered.

His stomach clenched at that inevitable question. The thought of telling her that he had to abandon her mother was too painful to consider. "I... I'm sorry, Belle, but... I can't. I'm still... not ready to tell you."

She pursed her mouth, only able to stare, and Maurice feared he had said the wrong thing. But her eyes were understanding. She wrapped her little arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

He responded in kind, gripping her tightly to him. He felt a tear graze his cheek. Seeing her in this state broke his heart, but he had to admit it was a necessary evil.

Then Belle mumbled into his collar, “I wish she was here.”

He rubbed her back. “As do I. I miss her… very much.”

Despite how he had begun, with his little girl in his arms, he was feeling stronger by the second. He couldn’t remember the last time his heart had felt so full.

He cradled her in his arms before he stood, and kissed the top of her head as he laid her back in bed.

“I know,” he murmured, grasping both of her hands, “that this is painful. There is not a day that goes by when I don’t think of her. But, Belle, we will always have each other, for better or worse… no matter what.”

Belle sniffled, but nodded. “No matter what.”

Maurice grinned, wiping away a stray tear on her cheek. “That’s right! You and me against the world.”

She stood on her knees to hug him again. “I love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, Belle.”

He tucked her in again, smoothing her hair as he kissed her goodnight. He went to pick up the painting.

“Wait,” Belle called.

Looking to her, Maurice saw her watching her mother’s portrait. “Can I keep it?” she asked.

Smiling, he replied, “I would like nothing more.”

He set the portrait on her dresser, leaning it against the wall behind it. He took the candle from the nightstand and sat it next to the canvas, giving the painting its own spotlight.

“How is that?” he checked.

She nodded in approval, burrowing herself into a position facing the picture.

“Goodnight, my dear,” he said from her doorway.

She managed a small smile. “Goodnight, Papa.”

As he made his way to his bedroom, he could not deny that a noticeable weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Belle knew the truth, and he would be happy to tell her more when both of them were ready.

Like a prayer, he imparted as he did every night before he drifted to sleep, _Goodnight, Colette… I hope I’ve made you proud._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, I was very emotionally-invested while writing this. I hope that while you read this, it prompted a similar response. Let me know!
> 
> And a thank you to GreenArcher for looking this over!


	3. Patrimony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Prince came of age.

He stood by the end of the four-poster bed. His father had warned him not to stand too close, or else he would catch the plague, too.

His mother looked so pale and frail. The luster in her honey-colored hair had vanished. The illness had sapped her of strength, leaving her limbs bony and brittle.

He pursed his lips. She was no longer his mother. She couldn’t read to him anymore, couldn’t whisper inside jokes in his ear, couldn’t hug him, couldn’t even touch him. A ghost laid where his mother had slept.

Though her eyes were closed, her chest rose as she took a small breath. “Adam,” she sighed.

The Prince jumped at her speaking, a hope sparking in his chest. “Maman?”

She moved her hand only slightly in his direction. Adam stepped closer, wanting to take hold, to keep her from slipping away.

But the plague…

“Maman?” he called again, to remind her that he was there though he was afraid to touch her.

But it seemed she only had enough energy for one word. Her head relaxed against the pillows, and she didn’t move again.

Adam stared, wide-eyed. His name had been her last word…

His father had also told him not to cry. _To mourn over the inevitable is pointless_ , he had said.

He fought the urge as long as he could, clenching his jaw to keep those tears at bay. He waited anxiously for his mother to move again, to wake up, so _he_ could wake up from this nightmare.

How could he have thought she was no longer his mother? Of course she was! She was the only one he would ever have!

His stomach cringed from guilt. And now… she…

A firm hand gripped his shoulder. That was his cue to walk away and let the embalmer and his men prepare her for burial.

When Adam didn’t move, the king tugged, digging his fingers into his collarbone, and they both turned away.

* * *

The Prince furrowed his brow in concentration, though he read quite smoothly aloud. “’ _One must, as much as he can, help everybody; we often need someone smaller than us. Of that truth two tales will bear witness, as so many proofs around us do._ ’”

He looked up from the book, a questioning look on his youthful features.

Cogsworth, who sat next to him at a table in the library, waved for him to proceed.

Adam returned his eyes to the text. “’ _Between the legs of a lion, a mouse happened to get out of the ground by mistake. The animals’ king, in that occurrence, dee—dee-mon—_ ‘”

“Demonstrated,” the majordomo corrected.

“Oh,” the Prince muttered with a grimace. “Right… ‘ _demonstrated who he was, and let it live. That good deed was not in vain. Would anyone ever think that a lion might care for a mouse?_

“ _However, upon leaving the forest, the lion was caught in nets, where his roars could not free him. Sir Mouse came running, and using its teeth did so much that a gnawed stitch undid the whole work. Patience and mercy do more than strength or anger._ ’”

The Prince sat back in his seat. “So… the mouse freed the lion,” he concluded.

“Yes, and do you know why?”

He glanced at the fable again. “It… said that the lion let the mouse live.”

“Precisely,” Cogsworth confirmed with a smile. “Despite how the mouse had trespassed on the lion’s territory, the lion had shown mercy. The mouse remembered this, and returned the favor in kind. Now, if the lion hadn’t pardoned the mouse, what could have happened to the lion?”

Adam pressed his lips together in thought. “The lion… The mouse would not have freed the lion.”

Cogsworth laced his fingers as he inquired, “So what does that mean: ‘ _Patience and mercy do more than strength or anger_ ’?”

“Uh…” The Prince should have been used to the majordomo’s analytical literary questions by then, but this kind in particular always made him stumble. “Well…”

He read the sentence again under his breath. “Um… Being patient and merciful… Oh!” he exclaimed as it clicked. “Sometimes being patient and merciful will do more… Oh,” he stopped, realizing he was echoing the book. He tried to hide his embarrassment by staring down at the table.

Cogsworth chuckled. “It’s all right, Master Adam. It is quite tricky to rephrase. Here, how about, instead of ‘do more,’ we say ‘brings rewards.’ Give that a try.”

“Okay.” He double-checked his phrasing in his mind. “Sometimes being patient and merciful brings… _greater_ rewards than strength or anger.” He grinned up at the majordomo with some pride.

“Very nicely put,” Cogsworth said with a nod of approval. “But—“

Adam dropped his chin to his chest, heaving a huge sigh before Cogsworth continued, “Why don’t we combine ‘strength’ and ‘anger’ into one word?”

The Prince raised his head again, his face a picture of confusion. “One word?”

“Certainly. It _can_ be done, I assure you.” He rubbed his chin, considering, but decided to hint, “The word I am thinking of is one of the seven deadly sins.”

“Anger?” he promptly replied.

“No. And that would be ‘wrath’, though they can be synonymous.”

The Prince counted down on his fingers. “It’s not… pride, is it?”

Cogsworth brightened. “It is! You’re exactly right. Now, put it all together.”

Adam hesitated as he thought out his wording before voicing it. “Being patient and merciful brings greater rewards than pride—than being proud,” he corrected last second.

“Wonderful, sire!” the majordomo congratulated, beaming only briefly before he instructed, “Before we move on, I want to bring your attention to the beginning of this fable. Read it again for me, please.”

Though unsure why, he shrugged to himself before rereading, “’ _One must, as much as he can, help everybody; we often need someone smaller than us._ ’”

“Right, and I am sure you already know the first part of that. But what about the second part?”

“We need to try and help everyone,” the Prince replied more easily, “including the ones who are smaller than us.”

“What does it mean by ‘smaller?’” Cogsworth asked, eyeing the young prince curiously. “Do they mean it literally? ‘We often need those _shorter_ than us?’”

Adam laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I think it means… those in a… lower place than us, like commoners.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed with utmost sincerity. “Without commoners, there would be no kingdom, no one to serve or be served by. It is always a give-and-take between monarch and subject, Master Adam, a balance that should never, ever be compromised.”

A loud clearing of a throat bounced off the marble floor from across the room. Cogsworth turned and saw the king himself beckoning him over. Adam thought his father appeared rather severe and disapproving, a look the Prince himself received too often.

With a deep, preparatory breath, Cogsworth stood. “I will return shortly,” he informed the Prince, giving nothing away before he met the king by the entrance. The majordomo closed the door behind him.

Adam watched it for a moment. _What did Cogsworth do?_ he wondered.

Slipping out of his chair, he took hushed, nimble steps to the door before he tentatively put his ear to the keyhole.

“… should be teaching him arithmetic, history, and politics, not this ethical nonsense from children’s books!” the king berated.

Cogsworth kept his tone calm and even. “Believe me, sire, I have attempted what you’ve instructed, but he was not responding to any of those subjects. Taking what he has had to endure at so young an age into consideration, this does not come as a surprise.” He became slightly insistent as he said, “However, he has shown great interest in his mother’s old books, especially since they are familiar to him. They comfort him immensely, and seem to be improving his spirits.”

“It has been nine months, practically a year,” his father argued, entirely unconvinced. “Coddling him won’t help him come to terms with Delphine’s death, and it is more than likely he never will.” He lowered his voice in a manner that hinged on threatening. “So instead of wasting time on silly fables, teach him what he really needs to learn or I will find another who will.”

There were a few beats of silence; its tension was practically tangible from where Adam sat crouching behind the door.

The Prince didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he heard the majordomo submit unwillingly, “As you wish, Master.”

The pounding of footsteps faded away, and he heard Cogsworth release a tired sigh.

With a start, Adam ran back as quietly as he could to his seat. Despite the short distance, his heart was racing even as he sat still.

He knew he shouldn’t have heard any of that, but… Cogsworth was in trouble with his father because of him.

He stared at the open book of fables in front of him, dreading it to be replaced by numbers and equations, or didactic historical text depicting war, famine, and… disease. He clenched his wet palms against his knees.

The library door opened again, and Cogsworth carefully stepped through. The Prince watched him stride toward him. The majordomo’s expression was contemplative, but based on the pronounced frown lines on his forehead, Adam could tell he was troubled.

The Prince tried to swallow the lump in his throat, feeling a guilty twinge in his stomach.

One look at the boy, and Cogsworth could tell he knew. “All right, Master Adam,” he gently admonished. “How much did you hear?”

Adam’s eyes grew wide, unable to speak in fear of reprimand. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Cogsworth had to smile. “Though I appreciate the apology, there is no need for one, sire.”

“But it’s my fault,” the Prince insisted.

The majordomo furrowed his brow, becoming quite stern in an instant. He leaned on the table toward him. “ _No_ , no, it’s _not_ your fault. None of which has occurred over this past year is your fault. Get that notion out of your head immediately.”

Feeling a sting behind his eyes, Adam ducked his head, choosing to stare at the illustration on the page instead. The lion caught in the net was panicked, but the mouse sat on top of him chewing on the rope to free him. He felt a strange affinity for the lion.

Cogsworth returned to the seat beside him, eyeing the boy carefully as he stared at the book. “Do you feel you are ready to return to our original studies?”

The Prince couldn’t answer. If he said “yes,” he would be lying. But if he said “no,” then Cogsworth might allow it, which meant he would be at more risk of being punished by Adam's father, or worse.

Adam glanced at the majordomo. Though Cogsworth was rather stuffy and demanding, he had never caused Adam to question that he truly cared. His mother had liked him enough to bring him with her from England, after all. Perhaps Adam occasionally wished a lesson could be over because of how much Cogsworth challenged him, but he was still a good teacher.

He couldn’t imagine him not being around anymore.

Despite that “no” was not an option, the Prince couldn’t bring himself to say “yes.”

Cogsworth watched the young Master wage a silent war with himself before interfering. “Sire, I may have a solution.”

When Adam looked up with doubtful eyes, Cogsworth went on, “Just because we have to return to history and arithmetic doesn’t mean we can’t still read what you want.”

The boy blinked at this revelation, taking a liking to it at once, but the majordomo just as quickly added, “But we cannot study them together. You must do so on your own. If you have any questions or observations, you may always come to me to express them.”

The Prince nodded, managing to mirror Cogsworth’s smile. “Okay.”

“Good. Now…” Cogsworth said, getting back to business. He stood as he glazed over the nearby shelves. “Where did we put those dry, old textbooks?”

The Prince found himself chuckling, his heart considerably lighter. He looked to the book of fables, closed it, and set it aside. He wasn’t going to forget to take it with him.

* * *

On horseback, the Prince dutifully followed his father along the forest path. Twigs cracked and pebbles shifted under hoof as the sun peeked through the green canopy overhead.

A rifle sat across Adam’s lap. He couldn’t stop glancing at it even though a shot of fear would race through him whenever he did. He had never fired at anything more than sacks stuffed with straw.

 _It is time you learned how to be a man,_ his father had told him. Adam was only twelve-years-old. He hardly felt like more than a child: His voice hadn’t dropped yet to a masculine register, there was no stubble to be seen on his lip or chin, and his hair was still a childish blonde from when he was a baby. He didn’t even _look_ the part of a man.

Birds chirped high in the trees, startling him to look around. He couldn’t spot where they were nested from the meager perch of his horse.

“Vincent!”

The Prince couldn’t help but cringe at his first name. Officially, his full name was Prince Vincent Alexandre Delphine Christophe III of Bourgogne, but his mother had nicknamed him Adam despite not having a say in his christening. The servants had taken a liking to the name, too, but his father had always refused to join them. He thought Vincent a more respectable and esteemed title, but only because it was the name they shared.

Adam focused his eyes ahead. The king had stopped after seeing his son wasn’t immediately behind him.

“Keep your eyes forward,” his father commanded with some annoyance. “What we want isn’t in the trees.”

“Oui, _père_ ,” the Prince replied, kicking his horse’s sides to catch up.

As they continued on, he saw his father step off his horse with rifle in hand and tie the reins to a low-hanging branch. Adam hurriedly did the same as the king carefully walked off the path into the brush. The Prince ran to keep up, but his father turned on him, his dark eyes narrowing.

“ _Quietly!_ ” he hissed. “I’ll not have you scaring them off!”

Adam shrunk at his father’s glare, and obediently nodded.

Keen to not anger the king further, the Prince matched his sneaking walk, and only stepped where his father had trod.

Soon, the sounds of rushing water could be heard. His father began to crouch as he approached a large fallen trunk.

Adam had hesitated as he spotted the doe ahead. It neared on fragile-looking legs to a pool the small waterfall had formed.

As his father motioned for the Prince to join him, he crouched like his father had and knelt behind the tree trunk.

“You couldn’t ask for a more perfect shot,” his father whispered, peeking over the trunk to watch the doe drink from the pool several meters ahead. He glanced over to see Adam following his gaze. “What are you waiting for?” he scolded under his breath. “Hurry, aim!”

Adam jumped, lifting his rifle and doing as the king demanded.

“Open your eyes,” his father berated as Adam shut one to line his sights.

The Prince could feel his jitters fluttering with more intensity. He gripped his rifle tighter to steady his hands.

“ _Bien_ ,” his father approved. Adam allowed himself to relax a little at this rarity. “Now, _slowly_ cock the hammer.”

Adam focused his eyes on the hammer at the front of his vision. He placed his thumb on it and ever so painstakingly pulled it until it gave a faint click.

The doe casually raised its head from the water. It subtly flicked its ears as it seemed to watch the waterfall.

Almost out of habit, Adam’s thoughts went to the fables he had read about deer. One was about a stag that had admired its antlers in the pool, but had criticized his feet, yet when it had tried to run from hunters, it was its antlers that had gotten it caught in brush and sentenced to death.

 _Look to use before ornament,_ the moral had said.

The king spoke with a hushed menace, tugging the Prince from the clouds. “ _Fire the musket_.”

Adam took a deep breath and tried to pull the trigger, but the fear that had been building inside him made him freeze. After he fired the gun, there was no going back. What if the doe only had one eye, like in another fable he had read? How fair would that be to kill a creature unawares when it believes it is safe?

He steeled himself, a finger firmly on the trigger. As he fired it, he tilted the gun up by the slightest margin.

The bullet shattered a spot of bark from the tree behind the deer.

The doe started and bolted out of the glen like lightening, vanishing into the forest in the blink of an eye.

Silence pervaded the air around them, making Adam acutely aware of his father’s impending wrath. He kept his eyes ahead as his father stared in shock.

“Did you…” The king sounded much more baffled than angry, but a sneer began to form on his mouth. “Did you purposely _miss?”_

Adam pursed his lips, keeping his eyes focused on the waterfall.

His father snorted as he shook his head and stood. “Pathetic.”

He left his son by the trunk. Adam heard him pull out the sword he always kept at his side and cut through the bushes he tromped by.

* * *

The king had headed back toward the château before Adam returned to his horse. It didn’t matter. He preferred to ride alone instead of in his father’s presence anyway.

Adam didn’t regret his actions this time. Hunting was his father’s favorite sport. He normally did it with a gang of other pompous nobles in the area. They all relished the thrill of chasing prey through the forest. It must have made them feel superior, killing defenseless animals as a game. On occasion, they would bring back a particularly impressive kill, like a twelve-pointed stag, but typically, they left the animals to nature as they bled to death in the grass. With the finery they wore to go hunting, why would they risk staining themselves with their own kills?

No. Adam was not going to be joining their ranks. Not ever.

Though remembering the path back was tricky, the Prince managed to find his way home. He weaved through the maze of parterres surrounding the towering château until he arrived at the stables.

After the afternoon ride, Adam could feel the sweat under his arms and at his back. Inside the front doors, he handed his coat to an already waiting Chapeau.

“Master Adam,” the valet acknowledged as he took the jacket.

His throat tight, the Prince could only incline his head to him, hoping the valet didn’t ask about his hunting excursion, but it seemed he was ahead of him.

“If you’re so inclined, dinner has been served,” Chapeau informed, giving the young Master a small smile.

Adam mustered a grin in return. “Merci,” he replied before eagerly heading to the dining room.

His stomach growled as he passed the kitchen, where the scents of the prepared food still lingered. It had certainly been a long day. Even though he had to eat across from his father, Adam was sure, like at all meals, the king wouldn’t deign him even a glance, much less a word.

He walked into the dining room, having to pass his father to claim his seat at the opposite end of the table.

But he hardly made it halfway down before his father stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he drawled.

Adam felt his heart pick up speed as he faced the king. The sweat at his back ran cold.

With as much courage as he could assemble, he said simply, “To eat dinner.”

His father arched an eyebrow at him. “Do you truly believe you’ve earned dinner?”

Adam furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

The king set down his fork as he finished chewing, shaking his head in disbelief as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “If you are not willing to kill for your meal, then you do not deserve one.”

The Prince could only stare as his words were processed. Surely, he couldn’t be serious.

But his father waved him a dismissal and returned to his meal as though he no longer existed.

Adam stood there for what felt like hours. He knew he couldn’t wait for his father to change his mind, because he knew from experience that was like waiting for the Second Coming, but what else could he do?

His stomach growled in protest. He clutched it in an attempt to silence it from his father’s ears. Desperately, he turned toward the kitchen doors.

“Ah-ah-ah,” his father called. “They will not feed you either. They are under strict orders not to.”

Adam spun back around to meet the king’s cold gaze, his eyes like an abyss. He felt his cheeks start to burn.

Before his father could see any more of his mortification, of his weakness, Adam sprinted from the dining room as tears began to blind his vision.

* * *

In his room, the Prince sat on his bed, flipping through his mother’s book of fables until he found the right page. There it was, the stag caught in a tree’s low-hanging branches by its beautiful antlers.

And look where these stupid stories got him.

Adam picked up the book and flung it across the room. It landed cover up, slid on the marble floor, and was still.

He fell back into his pillows and stared morosely at the ceiling of his bed.

Until then, he had never chosen to defy his father. He had always let his fear of punishment keep him from doing anything remotely against the king’s wishes. But this... shooting a deer with no intention of taking it home to even eat. The code of ethics that his mother had instilled in him at so young an age, one that Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts had encouraged, made him refuse.

If only his mother were still alive. She would have never allowed her husband to deny him a meal. She had protected him from all potential cruelty. She had kept him safe.

Who could protect him now?

Three knocks came from his doors. Adam eyed them curiously.

“Master Adam?” a voice behind them called.

The Prince sat up. “Come in.”

A door opened and a covered tea trolley rolled into the room.

“Hello, love,” Mrs. Potts greeted with a soothing smile as she closed the door behind her.

“Hello,” Adam softly repeated, unable to mirror her expression this time.

Mrs. Potts seemed to empathize. “Why don’t we go into the sitting room?”

Adam hesitated, not really wanting to leave the comfort of his bed, but Mrs. Potts came up to him. “Come on, then,” she prodded, taking his hand and helping him off the bed. She grabbed her trolley and pulled it along as she walked with him.

“Have a seat, dear,” she instructed, nudging him to the chaise.

“I don’t want tea,” he announced, but he did as she bid.

Mrs. Potts laughed. “That’s all right. I've got more than tea here.” She lifted the large cloth hanging over the trolley to see a silver covered tray.

Adam’s eyes widened. “Is that…?”

“Of course, Master! You didn’t think we’d let you starve now, did you?” She set the tray on the coffee table in front of him.

His stomach twisted in anticipation, but he looked to the housekeeper with uncertainty. “But… didn’t my father tell you not to?”

Mrs. Potts pressed her lips together in disapproval. “Yes, he did. That’s why it took so long to bring it up to you. We had to wait for him to finish so that he wouldn’t see. But we kept it warm for you, don’t worry,” she promised as she removed the cover to reveal his dinner.

When Adam still hesitated, she urged, “Go on, dearie, before it gets cold. I know you must be famished!”

“But…” The Prince watched her anxiously. “What if he finds out?”

Mrs. Potts grinned and reassured, “Never you mind if he does.”

“But I _do_ mind!” he insisted. “He found out about Cogsworth, remember?”

She couldn’t argue with that. It was only the year before when the king had come across Adam leaving the library with a stack of fictional literature after a lesson, including Greek plays, Shakespeare, and German poetry. Now the Prince had to endure a pretentious tutor who seemed to enjoy patronizing him.

“Oh, little Master…” she said as she came around the table to sit next to him. She murmured with conspiracy, “What your father doesn’t know won’t hurt anybody. You know that. Besides, look how careful we’ve been since.”

Adam was quiet, still conflicted. Mrs. Potts covered the food again, leaning forward to try to read him. “Is this about your hunting trip today?” she gently prompted.

The Prince sighed, slumping against the back of the chaise. Mrs. Potts turned to face him, patiently waiting for his response.

He pouted slightly before saying, “I didn’t shoot the deer.”

She appeared to already know this. “Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to. I…” He glanced away, feeling a bit of shame despite himself. “… couldn’t.”

Mrs. Potts hummed a laugh. “You certainly do take after your mother.”

Adam quickly looked to her. “I never want to hunt,” he said strongly.

“And that’s fine!” Mrs. Potts assured, covering his hand. “Hunting isn’t for everybody. Your father is the only one in this entire castle, I think, who enjoys it.”

He searched her eyes. “Do you think… he will make me do it again?”

Her expression became unsure. “I can’t say for certain, love. For your sake, I hope not.”

Another question came to mind, but he decided not to ask it. He was sure he already knew the answer.

The servants, not even Mrs. Potts, would be able to stop his father from dragging him to try to hunt again. He had seen how much they walked on eggshells around him. They could only do so much, like sneak him food when he had been refused dinner, or steal works of fiction from the library for him when he should only be reading volumes about political philosophy. If he couldn’t properly stand up to his father as his own son, how could he expect them to do the same?

The Prince straightened in his seat and reached for his food. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Potts rubbed his back as she smiled. “You’re welcome. We’ll be up to check on you again soon.”

With that, she rolled her tea trolley to the door, but not before she picked up the tossed book from the floor. Adam saw her pause on its cover for a moment before placing it on his nightstand. She went to leave, but caught his eye. She flashed him a smile, but he had seen.

She was worried, too.

* * *

“ _En garde!"_

The clashing of rapiers filled the armory as Prince Adam, now of sixteen years, fenced skillfully against Lumière. Other than his father, the maître d’ was the only one in the château who was a practiced fencer. He had taught Adam how to step, how and when to parry and lunge, and how to always be ahead of your opponent.

As usual, Adam was the first to go on the offensive, attempting to get past Lumière’s guard. He lunged forward again on his right foot, but Lumière brushed it away with only a flick of his wrist.

“Now, now, Master,” Lumière reminded with a smirk, noting the beads of sweat blooming on the Prince’s brow. “Do not be so quick to tire yourself.”

Adam grimaced, wiping away the loose reddish blonde strands that stuck to his forehead. Over a few short years, he had grown to be as tall as the maître d’ himself, and was attaining an athletic build fit for such sport. He was swiftly coming into his own.

At Lumière’s note, the Prince went on the defensive, trying to regain his endurance. Lumière eyed him, a smile tugging on a corner of his mouth, until he thrusted his rapier toward Adam’s left hip. Adam had seen him glance at that spot the moment before he attacked, and blocked it successfully. With a circle of his wrist, he attempted to spin the sword out of the maître d’s hand, but Lumière was deft to realize his trick.

After retracting his attack, Lumière nodded with admiration. “ _Yes_ , very well done, Master! _Très bien!”_

Adam heaved a deep breath, grinning back. “I almost disarmed you.”

“Oui, _almost_ ,” he reminded. “But not quite. Keep trying to anticipate me, and trust your instincts.”

The Prince nodded, going into the starting position once more. He chose to keep his guard up as he watched Lumière look for a weakness in it. The maître d’ suddenly lunged inside his right shoulder, which Adam easily blocked, but Lumière changed the course of his aim to his left side in an instant. Adam almost let the foiled point of Lumière’s rapier touch him.

Again, he attempted to catch Lumière’s sword, but Lumière was alarmingly fast. The Prince found himself caught trying to parry all of the rapid touches he was pressing on him, forcing Adam to retreat his steps. His eyes strained to keep track.

His focus only had to slip a sliver of a second for Lumière to sneak in and tear the rapier from Adam’s hand. He froze as he watched it clatter to the stone floor.

When he turned his eyes back to Lumière, the maître d’ was pointing his rapier at the Prince’s heart and wearing a triumphant smirk.

“Admit your defeat, and I shall be merciful,” he warned with a theatrical seriousness akin to his sense of humor.

Though chagrined at another lost match, Adam had to laugh. “Fine.” He shrugged. “I… have much to learn.”

Lumière gave him a genuine smile as he lowered his sword. “But you have come very far, Master,” he said, gripping the Prince’s forearm in good sportsmanship. “I am sure the day will soon come when you have me at _your_ mercy!”

As Adam went to fetch his rapier off the ground, the door to the armory opened.

“Your Highness,” he heard Lumière solemnly acknowledge.

Adam had noticed in all the servants how differently they spoke to him as opposed to his father, but Lumière’s seemed the most drastic. His natural exuberance was stifled in the king’s presence as though it would be considered offensive.

The Prince glanced up to see the maître d’ bowing to the imposing presence that lurked in the doorway. Ignoring Lumière, the king narrowed his eyes at the rapier in Adam’s hand.

But then, not unkindly, he met his eyes. “Vincent.”

“Father,” the Prince greeted with an incline of his head.

The king stepped into the room, his heels echoing through the tension that filled it. He ran his gaze over Adam’s appearance, pausing at the sweat that showed on his forehead and under the arms of his tunic.

Adam looked to Lumière behind his father, but he seemed as concerned as Adam felt.

“To what do I owe the occasion of this visit?” he inquired politely. He had learned by now that it was better to speak as though he were one of his father’s subjects rather than his son to keep the king placated.

“I wanted to assess your progress,” the king replied just as cordially. He began to take off his ornamented jacket. “What would you say to a duel?”

Adam blinked. He caught Lumière’s eye again to see the maître d’ mirroring his surprise.

He could feel the ache in his arms and calves from their practice. Surely his father could see his exhaustion. Was that his intention? To make him work harder for a victory he had not even attained once before?

His stomach clenched at what would come of this, but Adam obliged. “If you insist.”

His father raised a critical eyebrow at his response, but emoted little else. He held his coat out to his side, and Lumière hurried forward for him to lay it across his arms. The maître d’ ducked his head as he offered the king his own rapier, retreating as soon as it left his hands.

Adam took a deep breath to calm himself as his father weighed the rapier in his hand, his expression calculating as he ran his hand along the blade and point.

 _Anticipate him,_ he reminded himself. _Trust your instincts._

Satisfied, his father called over his shoulder to Lumière. “Count us in.”

“Oui, _maître._ ”

Lumière approached to stand between them. Adam could feel his eyes on him but he was too afraid to break his father’s stare to read what they were saying.

“ _En garde!”_ Lumière refereed.

Both royals jumped into the starting position: right foot and sword pointing at their opponent.

“ _Prêts?”_ Lumière glanced uncertainly at the king, but he didn’t look about to change his mind.

The maître d’ sucked in a quick breath. “ _Allez!”_

The sound of metal on metal was heard before Adam could register it in sight. His father pushed heavily on the offensive, taking measured steps towards him and making him continually withdraw. Having to squint, it took all of his concentration to parry every swipe his father made at him, but his arms felt tugged on by gravity. His strength was being sapped like a punctured bag.

Adam grimaced as he blocked his father’s thrust near his hip, but it turned out to be a feint. With his reflexes slipping, the king swung around his defenses and sliced at his head.

A line of ice traced his left temple before it seared with heat like fire.

He gasped at the pain, clutching his head as he collapsed to his knees, his sword falling from his grip. When he pulled his hand away, his own blood covered his fingers.

Adam’s jaw dropped as he looked to his father to find him as cold and unsympathetic as the blade he carried. He merely pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed the bare point of his rapier clean.

“You… You removed the _fleuret?”_ Adam stammered.

His father’s lip curled. “A lesson cannot be taught without a firm hand,” he said. “After all, the consequence must befit the crime.”

“ _Crime?”_ he exclaimed, pleading to understand. “What _crime?_ What could I have done?”

“Because you refuse to learn what is necessary!” the king roared, his apathetic attitude morphing into ferocity. “Still to this very day, you concern yourself more with fairytales and romance than what it takes to rule. What have I told you _repeatedly?_ To be a king, you must think like one, you must speak like one, fight like one, _command_ your surroundings like one—but you _refuse_ to take responsibility. Instead you choose to read about… oh, that frivolous English bard and his _plays_ ,” he spat. “What was it I found in the library this morning? _Romeo and Juliet?”_

Adam cringed. Naturally, his father would find he had been reviewing the one play of Shakespeare’s that Adam found distasteful.

“I was only reading it because the tutor _you_ hired believes there’s substance in it worthy of study,” he blurted with concealed spite.

The king wrinkled his nose. “Then we will have to fix that, won’t we?”

Adam’s heart sank as he realized what he had done. He hung his head, feeling wretched, as his father traded with a stunned Lumière the rapier for his jacket.

He looked down on his son as he adjusted his sleeves, and shook his head. “I knew your mother had made you soft.”

The Prince clenched his eyes shut as his father’s footsteps disappeared, his knuckles turning white.

Within seconds, Lumière was at his side, taking Adam’s hand from his temple and pressing it to a handkerchief against the cut.

“Come with me,” the maître d’ urged. The Prince could tell he was shaken. “We need to get you to Mrs. Potts _tout de suite_.”

Lumière tried to take his arm, but Adam shrugged it off.

He heard him sigh. “Master, please—“

“Did you see him remove his _fleuret?”_

Adam met his eyes, freezing Lumière on the spot. He searched his face, trying to decipher what it seemed Lumière was attempting to hide. “Well, _did_ you?”

But the maître d’ broke his gaze. In a faint voice, he said, “I suspected.”

Adam glared as betrayal bloomed in his chest. “Why did you not speak up?”

“Master…” he implored in a helpless whisper. “What could I have said?”

A flash of empathy sparked in the Prince as he saw how similar their situations really were, but he smothered it, remaining steadfast in his belief. “ _Anything._ Anything would have been better than nothing at all!”

Adam went to stand and Lumière instantly tried to assist him, but he shook him off before getting to his feet.

“Then tell me,” Lumière challenged rather calmly to the Prince’s back, “do you think your father would have listened?”

Adam stopped striding to the exit at his words. He knew the answer to that, but he refused to admit it. He had already submitted to his father with more humiliation than was usual. His pride couldn’t take admitting another loss. Not today.

But, unlike the king, that wasn’t Lumière’s concern. Despite his silence, Lumière wrapped an arm around the Prince’s torso to support him, and led him out of the armory.

* * *

Though the cut healed over time, the Prince’s pride didn’t.

The similarities he had inherited from his mother had been admired by his servants, from his bright blue eyes and fair hair to his sharp intellect and open heart. Then his father’s words had turned those compliments into insults.

As before, Adam tried to seek comfort in the books that the queen had praised so highly in his childhood: _Morte d’Arthur_ , _Contes de temps passé, The Tempest, L’Astrée, Don Quixote._ The release they had always provided, however, had turned into shame. If his father caught him reading any of these, what more would he do to him? He couldn’t face him in a duel again, and feared what other form of punishment the king would deem appropriate.

But Adam couldn’t show how much his father had made his impression, how much he had instilled this deep-seated fear, tainting what had once been a liberating escape.

Even when his father wasn’t bearing down on him… he felt vulnerable.

He had to find some kind of protection, to build a barrier that his father wouldn’t be able to penetrate easily.

In the mirror, Adam looked over his appearance. He dressed simply, never wore makeup, and refused to wear a wig, despite how the current fashion dictated otherwise.

Even though Adam had never cared before, perhaps his fellow aristocrats were on to something. Did they have parts of themselves they also were trying to hide?

The Prince enhanced his wardrobe, only allowing the finest fabrics in the highest of fashion to drape his frame. Various wigs now dotted his shelf, each one for a different occasion. Palettes of powders and rouge were arranged on his vanity that his maids used to decorate his face and manipulate his features.

To Adam’s surprise, it was working. His father would scrutinize him to find that he couldn’t read him as he could before. To maintain this façade, Adam also began to mimic the king’s ways: his walk, his speech, even his manners.

Several days after continually applying his new appearance, one of the servers brought him his dinner and quietly asked with visible worry how he was. But Adam had been in his father’s presence, and he wasn’t going to risk breaking his streak.

“That isn’t your concern,” he snapped with a practiced sternness. “Mind you do not overstep with such impertinence again.”

The server looked taken aback, but obediently shut her mouth and scurried back to the kitchen. Adam dared to glance down the table to see his father watching him with an expression he had never seen directed at him before, as muted as it was, but it couldn’t be denied. It was one of approval.

Adam knew deep in his heart he shouldn’t enjoy it, but to gain approval from a man who never approved of anything felt like an accomplishment. After having been denied it for so long, Adam suddenly found himself craving even more, and wondered how long he could stay in his father’s good opinion.

* * *

_“Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla…_ "

The priest and altar servers’ chant bounced around the arched ceilings of the small chapel. Adam was the only immediate blood relative of his father, so he sat in the front pew, surrounded by a sparse few relations that were good enough to come and pay their respects.

The sun was positioned at its peak, and shined through the stained-glass window that sat above the altar, its rays creating a rainbow on the polished coffin.

“ _Tuba mirum spargens sonum per sepulcra regionum, coget omnes ante thronum.”_

Adam let the heavy-handed words on lilting voices drift in one ear and out the other. With the chapel’s acoustics, they seemed to wash over him twice each time.

_“Look there!” his father exclaimed as he saw a handsome stag through the trees. He kicked his horse forward as his friends followed, holding his rifle aloft as he chased it._

_Adam hurried to keep up, shaking the reins as the party went off the path. They were heading deep in the forest’s recesses, farther than he had ever gone. The light of dusk was barely enough to keep them in sight._

_He trailed behind the line of horses rushing for the stag until they slowed down and came to a confused halt. With a sweep of his gaze, he didn’t see his father among the group._

“ _Mors stupebit et natura, cum resurget creatura, judicanti responsura.”_

_A blood-curdling scream pierced the air, rattling the party to their boots. They turned their horses and spurred them toward the cry until they came to a cave, one that was apparently the home of their fellow predators._

_Wolves had claimed the stag for their own, now dragging its lifeless body inside, but even more alarming, the king was on his back, his horse nowhere in sight, fending off a wolf with his rifle. Another canine at his ankle joined in the fight and went for his neck before anyone could react._

Adam clamped his eyes shut, willing the images of that night to stop plaguing his mind.

_“Judex ergo cum sedebit, quidquid latet apparebit. Nil inultum remanebit.”_

_The blood drained from Adam’s face. He spun his horse around and galloped away, as far away as he could go. The shots of rifles ran out behind him as the rest of the men finished off the pack. Even though he had tried, he still couldn’t bring himself to kill._

“ _Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus, cum vix justus sit securus?”_

 _What shall I, a wretch, say then?_ Adam translated. _To which protector shall I appeal when even the just man is barely safe?_

He opened his palm to look at the gold mourning ring created for him, the ruby eyes of the enameled skull seemed to penetrate the thick armor that was now his identity.

He tucked it back into his fist, steeling himself from the guilt, the shame. But he couldn’t let himself mourn for a man who had never granted him mercy. If he had died in his father’s place, no tears would have been shed for him. He was certain of it.

The Latin became a plea for forgiveness, a confession of unworthiness for entrance into heaven.

The Prince heard them no longer.

* * *

Months later, after the acceptable mourning period had ended, he would host his first ball as his new self. It was such a release from pretending to regret his father's death after so long, and he would never forget it. He preened and strutted among their noble guests in dark bejeweled velvet and ruffled lace.

Beautiful women fluttered fans at their breasts as he gossiped with them, and he realized they were beckoning to him. Those beguiling smirks on rouged lips only confirmed their advances. By some combination of clever words, dancing, and the miracle of ego, he managed to escape with one from the ballroom for a rendezvous, and he had never felt so alive. Finally, he had taken control of his life for the first time. He was confident, he was attractive… he was powerful.

In the beginning, Adam had intended to only play his part for his father and fellow aristocrats, but his act soon transcended to the rest of the household.

His servants, those who had been family to him when his father had refused to be, were also on the receiving end of his cold aloofness. Once they had seen that he intended to maintain this ostentatious exterior, he would catch them looking at him with sympathy.

No. _Pity._

Adam was beyond that point in his life where he was the poor, ill-fated son of a cruel father and kind mother, both now deceased. That they should remind him of what he had been—

Of what he was…

He could never stand to be in their presence anymore. _They do not understand,_ he would think, and how could they? None of them could truly comprehend the position he was in, the corner he had been pushed into.

It was survive or die, and by God, he was going to survive and _thrive_ , no matter what it took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be remiss to confess I had some inspiration for aspects of this chapter from TrudiRose's "This Idyllic Scene" and LumBabsFan's "Prelude," not to mention GreenArcher's interpretation of the Prince's character in "The Master of My Fate." If you haven't read any of their works, please do! They have written some of the best BatB fanfiction out there.
> 
> A huge thanks to So-crates Johnson for beta-ing! (Check her out, too!)
> 
> Here are translations of the Latin, the beginning of the "Dies Irae" in a Requiem mass:
> 
> This day, this day of wrath shall consume the world in ashes...  
> The trumpet, scattering its awful sound across the graves of all lands summons all before the throne.  
> Death and nature shall be stunned when mankind arises to render account before the judge.  
> When the judge takes his seat all that is hidden shall appear nothing will remain unavenged.


End file.
